


and finally, i’m where i want to be

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27062572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: They put the winter duvet on the bed last week, which Jordan is really, really glad about, because it’s a chilly morning and he is not, for anyone, getting out of bed to put the heating on. He’s very comfortable here, thank you – he’s melting into the sheets, surrounded by the familiar, spicy smell of Virgil’s deodorant, heavy eyelids dragging every time he blinks.
Relationships: Virgil van Dijk/Jordan Henderson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	and finally, i’m where i want to be

**Author's Note:**

> fuck the english premier league 🙏🏻
> 
> feedback and comments keep me going and are always appreciated xxx

Jordan’s not always a fan of Sunday mornings, but he is when they’ve played the day before and he doesn’t have to move all day. 

It’s just that Sunday morning lie-ins are rare. In his line of work, they’ve been replaced by Tuesday morning lie-ins, because that’s the day they usually have off (if they’re not playing in Europe), so it’s hard to bring himself to care for them all too much when his mum shares memes on Facebook about Sundays being for laziness. 

And Virgil barely lets him lie in, either. You’d think – given his size and the fact he has the general get-up-and-go of a _sloth_ – that he’d like his sleep, take a while and three coffees to rise into something resembling a normal human being. 

But… No.

He is a morning person, and frankly, it’s quite sickening.

By the time Jordan is waking up, bleary-eyed and steaming mug of coffee in his hand, Virgil is already at his fullest capacity. He’s loud and chipper and honestly a little bit _too_ excited to get on with the day. It’s like having a puppy, and Jordan doesn’t even like dogs. 

But –– sometimes… sometimes, Virgil manages to stay still long enough. He manages to stay quiet, sleepy and warm, and content just to lie in bed with Jordan. That’s usually on a Sunday, and on those Sundays, when they’ve already played and their limbs are happily aching with the workload of a good, decent win…

Well. Jordan doesn’t hate them quite as much.

They put the winter duvet on the bed last week, which Jordan is really, really glad about, because it’s a chilly morning and he is not, for anyone, getting out of bed to put the heating on. He’s very comfortable here, thank you – he’s melting into the sheets, surrounded by the familiar, spicy smell of Virgil’s deodorant, heavy eyelids dragging every time he blinks.

Virgil hums, and slides an arm underneath Jordan’s body. He’s warm everywhere his body is pressed up against Jordan’s – slotted into the bends and contours of him, skin touching everywhere possible – and now the scent of his deodorant is even stronger where Jordan’s nose is brushing against the thin skin that joins his arm and his chest. 

Jordan smiles. Virgil’s arm is stretched out across the mattress in front of him, tattoos on stark display against the white sheets. He can see his own name, black ink on bronzed skin, and the date they decided to make a go of it underneath. It’s hidden, usually, underneath the sleeve of Virgil’s t-shirts, but it feels even more special knowing that Jordan is the only person who gets to see it like this.

He traces the tip of his index finger around the outlines of his own name, and then down, over the roses surrounding it. Virgil makes a quiet noise when he grazes his nail over the shading, but it’s one of simple pleasure – of contentment. 

It’s nice. They haven’t said a word in what feels like hours, but they don't need to. The silence is comfortable, light and not at all expectant, and Jordan relaxes into it. He likes that all they need to be happy is to share the same space. 

That, and being pressed up together so close that he’s not sure where one of them begins and the other ends. 

Virgil’s other hand comes to rest on his stomach, fingers spidered delicately across the hard muscle. His palm is hot, brushing a soothing, repetitive motion, and Jordan melts back into him. He covers Virgil’s hand with his own and tangles their fingers together.

“Love you,” Virgil murmurs, lips brushing against the soft skin at the back of Jordan’s neck when he speaks. He sounds tired, voice slow and deep, accent even thicker. Jordan loves the sound of it, closes his eyes and lets it wash over him.

It’s a rarity. Virgil, content not to move, not to bounce around and talk –– and, if Jordan’s being honest, not to be the centre of attention –– but when he _is_ like this, it’s special.

“Love you too,” Jordan whispers easily.

Virgil curls the arm that’s trapped underneath Jordan’s body up and around his chest, pulling him even closer in the process. There’s nowhere for him to go now (not that he’d even want to), and Virgil’s fingers brush backandforthbackandforth over his bare (chilly) shoulder. 

They really should get up. The alarm clock on Jordan’s side of the bed is beaming the numbers **10:04** at him in bright red LEDs and he’s pretty sure Trent is supposed to be coming round for dinner and a game of chess just after one, but he can’t quite bring himself to move.

He doesn’t want to destroy the moment.

It’s easy to imagine this as their future. A nice big house, somewhere out in the suburbs. Retirement, although Virgil’s working in punditry – he’s got the brains for it – and Jordan is slowly ranking through the coaching staff with the academy. Early mornings with the sunlight streaming through the curtains and Virgil pressed against his back, blinking himself awake. 

The patter of tiny feet across the hallway as their kids play together in their rooms, quietly and peacefully. _We should go check on them_ , Jordan would say, but Virgil just drags him back to bed with a gentle hand.

_They’re fine, Jord_ , the Virgil in his head whispers. _Now how about we start practicing for another baby? That nursery is looking very empty_.

How could hypothetical Jordan say no to that? 

Their future is blinding, crystal clear. 

He opens his mouth to tell Virgil about it, but he realises that Virgil’s asleep. Slow, even breaths warm against the back of his neck, nose pressed against the short hairs at the base of his skull, fingers flexing occasionally on his stomach, his shoulder.

Well, it doesn’t matter – it can wait. There’s no rush.

They have got the rest of their lives, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
